


From End to End

by shuujinkos



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: M/M, emetophobia a little bit, grossly unhealthy relationship, noncon but nothing actually happens?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 18:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7371964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuujinkos/pseuds/shuujinkos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He drives Liquid up the wall—but not the way he wants him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From End to End

Ocelot is made of edges, and even his wrinkles cut through his features in sharp lines. High, sculpted cheekbones; a slender and pointed nose; a squared and structured jaw; beneath his uniform, all of his joints end in angles. The only soft thing about him is the callouses on his knuckles and the pads of his fingers, and the thick silver strands pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. Long hair suits Ocelot, just like it suits Liquid.

(Though, when had he ever seen it shorter than his jaw?)

It isn’t just his appearance that’s sharp and intimidating, either. His voice is cold and collected, it rumbles slightly in the back of his throat with old age, but he speaks in such a way that it's hardly noticeable. He is a calm man, all calculation, all wit, no charm.

He drives Liquid up the wall—but not the way he wants him to.

Their relationship is complicated.

Ocelot has never considered him superior, but Liquid would never go as far to call him insubordinate. Perhaps it never crossed his mind because he knew from the start Ocelot was never his to control. Liquid is the captain and the navigator, but Ocelot is the rust on the ship’s wheel that makes it so hard to turn; he is the storm rocking the ship, threatening to capsize him but calming just before he goes under.

He knows not a shred of affection lies beneath any of Ocelot’s actions. Ocelot does not see him as his own person, he only sees ~~_a_ **_fake_** _; a “clone”; not the real thing; never_ **_good_ ** _enough_ ~~ his father.

He knows this, and does not care.

Vulnerability is something Liquid is certain is not present in Ocelot. It would not be until Ocelot is shed of his skin, wired up by bare muscles and bones, broken and stripped of what’s keeping him alive that he would even contemplate breaking. Even then, Liquid isn’t sure.

There is one thing that Liquid has to squint to see, and it makes his stomach churn, flips it around and ties it into knots. A brief moment of panic before Ocelot is gone.

Liquid doesn’t have a word for it, and Ocelot chooses not to disclose reasons or excuses, only curtly stops him when the line is about to be crossed. Liquid is ~~_frustrated; grasping straws; begging for more_ ~~ content with the lies Ocelot whispers into his ear as his hands are unmoving on his sides. Even when they’re pressed against each other Liquid feels as though he’s miles away.

It leaves Liquid moaning into his palm as he fists his dick, curled in on himself and wishing he had a better imagination.

 

It is only when he’s angry does Ocelot’s insufferable guard break and Liquid regrets his skin for days.

 

Not a word leaves Liquid’s mouth as he shoves open the automatic door faster than its motor can. Ocelot does not even _start_ , merely continues the mesmerizing motion of dragging his pen across paper in long, dignified strokes. Vivid blue eyes can’t help but admire the way his shoulders move with every movement. Liquid stomps over to the older man and snatches the pen from his hand mid-sentence, tosses it over his shoulder, and throws the papers off the desk.

Clear eyes that were once ice blue drag up to him and a fuzzy eyebrow is raised. Liquid doesn’t bother explaining himself, because he knows Ocelot won’t be listening anyways. He grabs the chair and spins it around, grabbing the sides of Ocelot’s face and smashing their lips together. Liquid kisses him aggressively, needily, and gets nothing in return. He knows he won’t.

He bites on the skin of Ocelot’s bottom lip, taking it into his mouth and sucking on it before shoving his tongue through Ocelot’s parted lips. Ocelot lays his hands on Liquid’s waist and applies no pressure. Liquid wants to bite his tongue off, he wants to eat him alive, he wants to shove him against the desk and take everything until Ocelot is in shambles.

He hikes his knee up on the chair in between Ocelot’s legs and threads his fingers through silver hair, knotting it and tearing it from its ponytail. Ocelot does not make a sound, does not move. Liquid kisses him more desperately, pushing all his weight and anger into Ocelot, begging for something, anything.

~~_Look at me like I’m real._ ~~

“Stand up,” Liquid growls against Ocelot’s teeth. The older man complies languidly, the grip on his waist tightening as he uses Liquid for leverage. Liquid shoves the chair out of the way with such ferocity that it falls over before it can roll on its wheels. He drives Ocelot back against the desk, bends him until he collapses on it with his legs dangling, and Liquid occupies the space between them as he captures Ocelot’s lips again.

Something changes.

Ocelot is not just still, he is _rigid._ Liquid rolls his hips into Ocelot’s, and a sound hitches in Ocelot’s throat. Liquid can’t hear the way he chokes on it, but he feels it catch and die on his tongue. Liquid hesitates for only a moment before he hears the hammer of Ocelot’s revolver click back in his ear.

~~**_Fuck._ ** ~~

Liquid stands up and backs away. Ocelot sits up with little effort and sets the gun on the desk. There is no change in his expression from when Liquid entered the room, but something strange is swimming in his eyes. Liquid stares at the older man with fire in his eyes and wishes he wasn’t so calm, so coldly deadly. He wishes Ocelot would hit him, would yell at him, would do _something_ other than stare at him with all the malice in the world.

Liquid retreats, swallowing down bile threatening to rise into his throat. He gets back into his room, slams his hand on the lock, and throws his coat on the ground. He knocks his chair over and lugs his desk off its feet. Chest heaving, he angrily sits on the edge of his bed like a child. A hard on throbs between his legs but he can’t find the peace of mind to deal with it. He grips the side of the bed with such ferocity that he could tear the sheets if he felt like it.

The urge to vomit raises again. He doesn't make it to the toppled over trash can before he dry heaves around a gloved hand, covering it with saliva. The convulsions still for a moment, long enough for him to drag himself to the bin and cradle it to his chest. He waits and waits for his stomach to force actual vomit out, but he gets nothing.

He had gone too far. He never had been on the receiving end of a look like that. It shook him down to his bones, grabbed a fistful of his stomach and squeezed hard, wrapped around his lungs to keep him from breathing.

Liquid sets the trash can down and leans his head back against the bed, closing his eyes. He brushes the hand not covered in spit over his crotch.

_Fuck…I’m still hard._

**Author's Note:**

> *quietly tends to my tiny Asexual Ocelot crops in a field full of Sexually Overcharged Ocelot characterizations*  
> i was connecting so strongly while writing this fic that it left me feeling sick. oceliquid is very important to me, i am dead and dying.


End file.
